


Christmas Glitter Ball

by Melinaa



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Christmas, Crack, Crack Treated Seriously, Lestrade and John are being very delighted, Sherlock being ridiculous while on a case, Somehow, and are making fun of Sherlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-15
Updated: 2020-02-15
Packaged: 2021-02-19 04:53:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,811
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22738993
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Melinaa/pseuds/Melinaa
Summary: “Yep. You definitely broke him.”“I told you so.”“Without a doubt.”Lestrade and John were merely observing the entire scene now as both of them were honestly too tired and too done with all of this to properly deal with it. Having their arms crossed in front of their chests they watched how the paramedics kept attempting to put a blanket around Sherlock and simultaneously to convince him to change into a dry set of clothes. Well, trousers at least. He was already shirtless.“Okay, explain this to me again,” Lestrade said after watching how Sherlock threw the blanket away staring at the doctor in front of him challengingly. “How exactly did he end up jumping into the Thames shirtless, with a clown nose and these red... whatever these things on his head are.”“Antlers. They are supposed to be antlers. Like Rudolph's. And it-”“He knows that reindeers look different, right?” Greg seriously doubted it.“I-” John hesitated. “He's supposed to know it,” he ended up saying, and Greg could merely shake his head“Anyway, he dressed up as Rudolph – that's al least what I assumed – and it all started exactly five hours ago...”
Relationships: Greg Lestrade & John Watson, Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, if you squint
Comments: 2
Kudos: 30





	Christmas Glitter Ball

**Author's Note:**

> Hi guys!  
> So, I know it's been quite a while since Christmas, and I wrote this as a Christmas present for a friend of mine but I wanted to share this with you anyways. Somehow forgot to upload it over exams and stuff, sorry. Anyway, enjoy this funny piece of... well, gay Johnlock where ever you look :D

“Lestrade. Who's this?”

“John. John Watson.”

“Ah, Doctor Watson. What's the matter?”

“I uhm... we need some back up over here. Westminster Bridge,” the Doctor said on the other end of the line. Greg automatically sat straighter in his chair. It usually never meant something good when either Sherlock or John called and needed “help”.

“What happened?”

“I think there's something wrong with him. He jumped into the Thames to catch a murderer. Or at least someone with the intention to murder,” Doctor Watson explained as if there was any logic behind it. There probably was for him and Sherlock, but not for Greg.

He couldn't contain his laugh. “That's why you think something is wrong with him? He's Sherlock, he does... well, _that_.”

“It's December!”

“I still don't see the problem.” Greg exhaled slumping into his chair. Should he really be worried? It was Sherlock after all. “Except that he might catch a cold. By the way, why didn't I know he was on a case?!”

John sighed. “Just... just get here with some backup, please? You'll realise when you see it yourself...”

  
  


“Yep. Definitely something wrong.”

“I told you so.”

“Without a doubt.”

Lestrade and John were merely observing the entire scene now as both of them were honestly too tired and too done with all of this to properly deal with it. Having their arms crossed in front of their chests they watched how the paramedics kept attempting to put a blanket around Sherlock and simultaneously to convince him to change into a dry set of clothes. Well, trousers at least. He was already shirtless.

“Okay, explain this to me again,” Lestrade said after watching how Sherlock threw the blanket away staring at the doctor in front of him challengingly. “How exactly did he end up jumping into the Thames shirtless, with a clown nose and these red... whatever these things on his head are.”

“Antlers. They are supposed to be antlers. Like Rudolph's. And it-”

“He knows that reindeers look different, right?” Greg seriously doubted it.

“I-” John hesitated. “He's supposed to know it,” he ended up saying, and Greg could merely shake his head

“Anyway, he dressed up as Rudolph – that's al least what I assumed – and it all started exactly five hours ago...”

**5 hours ago**

“John, I need a case!”

“You just solved one this very morning, Sherlock. Before I even got up.”

“But I'M BORED!” Sherlock jumped up from the couch and walked around the room picking up various things and placing them back down again. He paced around the room in this manner, attempting to do the same with John's newspapers but he let it slide rather quickly when John shot him a glare. He hadn't even glanced up from what he was reading; Sherlock's behaviour was nothing new to him.

He slumped back down on the couch, still pouting like a child that was forced to sit in the back of the car for a four-hour-drive. Sometimes John wondered how Sherlock's parents had been able to endure not one but two children of this kind. He was sure not even God himself would have had enough patience to bear the Holmes brothers at a younger age. Or at any age.

“Then go to the grocery store. We're out of milk again,” John remarked. “Or sit in the tube and deduce people. Maybe you'll discover a murderer.”

Sherlock merely huffed at the suggestions and turned his back towards John. “Fine, then keep sulking like a child,” he muttered turning the page. Sherlock looked up at the new sound but returned to his previous posture quickly. He hadn't even bothered to dress himself yet and John hoped this wouldn't be a day he would spend complaining. If that was the case he would leave the flat before he would be driven mad.

He heard Sherlock shuffling and turning on the couch to catch his attention but John refused to pay any attention to it. He was a grown man behaving like a child; while John wasn't surprised by this behaviour anymore, he hadn't given up on hoping that Sherlock would, one day, pull himself together.

It was needless to say that John's nerves were quite strained by now.

His unresponsive silence was eventually answered with Sherlock getting up to bring the kettle to a boil. John wasn't sure whether or not he could expect him to make him a cup as well; he would most likely simply forget that John might want one, too. Well, he would probably forget that John was even there.

His train of thoughts and Sherlock's tea making were interrupted by a short ringing of the doorbell. Both men's head shot up, looking towards the door first, then at each other.

“Maximum pressure, under a second; A new case, finally!” And with that he was almost out of the door. John threw away his newspapers and hurried after him, grabbing him by his upper arm just a moment before he could reach for the handle.

“No. You're not going to open the door to a client like this. You go upstairs, brush your teeth and dress yourself. In a suit, not a bed sheet I might add,” John ordered sternly. He wouldn't allow a repeat of the Buckingham Palace incidence.

Sherlock eyed him in a way that indicated very clearly that he was close to strangling John for keeping him from a case for even a second longer. But Sherlock also knew that arguing was pointless – John had had the patience to keep up with him for several years now, he knew he couldn't win an argument as simple as this.

So, a few minutes later, they were back in their sitting room, Sherlock in his usual armchair, John at the desk. It was amazing how quickly the man could change his attire from “I'm homeless” to “I'm a professional”. He was now dressed in his usual black suit with a dark red shirt beneath it which stretched over his chest in a way that John asked himself why the bloody hell the man couldn't just go up a size when he was out buying clothes. But, then again, John couldn't imagine Sherlock going clothes shopping. Or doing any shopping at all. He couldn't even manage to get some milk from the TESCO just down the road. Or...

  
  


“Okay, okay,” Lestrade interrupted John's monologue. “I really don't need to know about Sherlock's attitude towards shopping of any kind or the way his shirts stretch over his chest.” Lestrade was positively shuddering at the thought of that and even more at the thought of _why exactly_ in the world John Watson would even notice _that_.

He really didn't want to know any of that.

John cleared his throat. “Right. Where was I? Ah. So, we were sitting...”

  
  


He quickly concentrated on Sherlock again before the annoyance over his flatmate's behaviour could get the better of him. Sherlock had placed his hands flat against each other, the fingertips just barely touching the underside of his chin. He had probably already figured the man out.

Their client, probably in his forties, was sitting in the clients' usual chair. Everything about him basically screamed nervousness, and John knew how much it was annoying Sherlock. The man was bouncing his left leg restlessly, looked around the flat hectically; he was rubbing his hands quickly as if to warm them up. It could be true since it was terribly icy and windy outside but the movement was too fast to be just for the sake of warming up.

“Now, Mr. Campell, why are you here?” John asked to break the awkward silence that was filling the room.

The man took a breath but Sherlock interrupted him before he could speak. “But don't annoy me. And be quite quick, it will benefit both of us. I'm sure your children want you back home soon.”

The man gasped terrified, and John groaned. “Sherlock.”

“Hm?” The man in question turned towards John, eyebrows risen. For considering himself the smartest man wherever he went, he could be awfully oblivious to most things. “I'm trying to be decent.”

“You suck at being decent.”

“I do?”

“Yes.” John shook his head and made a gesture towards Mr. Campell along the lines of “Ignore him and just go on”.

“Right.” Mr. Campell cleared his throat, and Sherlock looked ready for murder. “So, my family and I bought a Christmas tree last week and we decorated it. Actually, I'm not someone for a tree but the children and my wife insisted on it. We decorated it but afterwards, when we got together I noticed that my kids felt unwell. They complained about a headache and a dry-”

“Oh please, I'm not a doctor!” Sherlock exclaimed throwing up his hands and jumped up. “There's-”

“Sherlock!” John scolded. Why did the man have to behave like a bloody child?! He left the room without another glance, and John turned towards Mr. Campell. “Apologies, he's... a bit stressed at the moment. Please, do continue. I trust you brought your children to the doctor?”

Mr. Campell nodded, his eyes still glued to the door were Sherlock just disappeared through. “I did. I thought it might be an allergic reaction towards the tree. They'd never shown any signs before but I know allergies can arise and disappear at any moment.” He grew quiet and started bouncing his leg again, effectively annoying John now as well.

“Was it an allergy?” he asked because Mr. Campell seemed to have forgotten he was there.

He flinched. “No! Uhm, I mean I... I don't know. The doctor said he didn't know but it wasn't an allergy. At least not a pollen allergy. I sent them off to their grandparents anyway because not only my wife started to complain about the same symptoms but some of our neighbours did, too! They all went to their doctors but none could ever tell what the reason for the symptoms were.”

John glanced towards the door. How the bloody hell could Sherlock act so rude?? And why wasn't he coming back? By now, the case should sound interesting to him. Or maybe he was hiding behind the door like a child so he wouldn't have to admit he was wrong about his earlier statement. “What exactly were the symptoms, Mr. Campell?”

“My children complained about a headache and a sick stomach. I also noticed that they had drunken quite a lot more water than they usually would. Do you know how hard it is to make children drink water? As if it was a deadly poison. Like broccoli.”

“Mr. Campell. The symptoms.” John could start to understand why Sherlock had left.

“Ah, right. My wife and I had a headache and sick stomach, too, just like most of the neighbours. Some even vomited or uhm... yes.” He left the sentence unfinished but John, as a doctor himself, knew what he wanted to say.

“Oh, I almost forgot, I brought a sample of out Christmas tree for you!” He jumped up and started searching through the pockets of his coat furiously. “Had to take my children's new favourite bauble down, they wanted to murder me...”

Just as he pulled the fir branch out, Sherlock swept into the room again, took the branch from Mr. Campell in one fluid movement and used it to point towards the door. “Thank you for your insight, Mr. Campell, there is the door, goodbye.”

John wanted to punch him.

“Sherlock.”

“What?... Decency?”

“Decency.”

“There is the door, I wish you a merry day, Mr. Campell,” Sherlock tried again. John groaned and put his face in his hands. It surprised him again and again how Sherlock's behaviour still managed to bewilder (or rather shock) him.

“We will take on the case, Mr. Campell,” John translated for the poor man. “Spend a nice day with your children and don't worry.”

“We-”

  
  


“Okay, okay!” Lesatrde interrupted John again. “I don't need you to tell me how socially awkward Sherlock is, I know that myself. The case, John.”

“Ah right.” John rubbed the back of his head. The last few hours had been rather... unsettling. “Well, Mr. Campell left our flat and Sherlock and I had a discussion about how much more unbearable he was when he didn't have a case. I basically begged him to take this one. When that question had been settled I was ready to call Mycroft just to annoy Sherlock, and we left Baker Street...”

  
  


“ _You're horrible and a drama queen when your bored, has anyone ever told you that?!”_

“ _Yes, but that was when I was on a case. And the drama queen was your-”_

“ _I know! Sherlock, please... just take the case. I'm begging you.”_

“ _But it's boring!”_

“ _You can't tell me you don't have a theory yet. You basically eavesdropped the conversation like a child.”_

“ _Several theories. Five, to be precise. Come on, John, we'll go for a walk!”_

_John groaned but grabbed his jacket. “Thank God...”_

After having given the fir branch barely as much as another glance Sherlock had thrown it onto his chair, taken his coat and left Baker Street with an incredibly relieved John in tow. Sherlock might have insisted that the case was boring but he was in a rather delighted mood.

“Where are we going?” John asked, hands in his pocket. Sherlock hadn't said any more since they had left the flat, and John sadly wasn't gifted with the ability of knowing a person's thoughts based on the colour of their shirt.

“We're going to Mr. Campell's house. Thanks by the way for advising him to spend the day out,” Sherlock answered. John could, as usual, not follow.

“I'm sure that makes complete sense in your head but it doesn't in mine.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Come on, John, think!” he groaned and groaned again when he got no answer. It wasn't that John didn't try. He just didn't _want_ to. Sherlock would give him an answer anyway because he liked to hear himself talking.

“He'll be out and since he'll be spending the entire day with his family – no idea who would voluntarily spend an entire day with children, seriously – we will have enough time to get a good look around his house.”

“You would – What? You want to break into his house?!”

Sherlock turned around but didn't stop walking. “Come on, John. You know me well enough that this shouldn't surprise you anymore. I need more data. You're a doctor, what did you think his entire neighbourhood fell ill with?”

John sighed but concentrated on the question. “It's not an allergy, that's for sure. Maybe an infect... it's not uncommon to fall ill during winter, especially children b-”

“You don't really believe that, do you?” Sherlock interrupted him. He had tilted his head at John. “I mean I wouldn't have taken on the case if it was that simple.”

“I wasn't done talking,” John merely replied. The time when Sherlock's constant interruptions would confuse him were long over which didn't mean it wasn't annoying him. “But the nausea and the children's increased thirst had me worried. What's your theory?”

Sherlock turned his head towards John smiling. They were entering one of London's better neighbourhoods, one of the residential districts that was especially popular among families with smaller children. John watched the great, mainly white houses as they walked by. It was a nice change to have taken the public means of transport and walking to taking a cab. But London was horribly to go through by car during the Advent season. The streets were mostly empty since people were usually at work and school during a Tuesday morning. John found himself thinking that he could never live in a neighbourhood this quiet.

But before Sherlock could answer his question he bumped (on purpose, John could tell!) into an older lady passing them by.

“Oh, I am so sorry, please forgive me!” Sherlock exclaimed, and John wanted to groan at how much of an actor and drama queen the man was. Yet he joined him at bending down and picking up the lady's stuff.

“I am so sorry, I wasn't looking where I was going,” he apologised as he picked up the things. Groceries mostly, John noticed as he helped. He glanced at Sherlock. What was he playing at?

“Oh, it's fine, my dear. I wouldn't have noticed myself where I was going if I was accompanied by such a lovely man as you are.”

That would have made John look up in surprise if he hadn't been used to this by now. He had lost count of how many times people had already assumed that he and Sherlock were a couple. What made him look up was Sherlock's stuttering.

“I, uhm... yes, I... ah... please, let me help you with this! It's the least I can do!” he hurried to say way too friendly and took the bags. Oh come one, the old lady couldn't really buy that, could she?

But, then again, she didn't know Sherlock and smiled at him. “That would be lovely. My home just down the road.”

“Are you living here?” Sherlock asked as they made their way back from where they had just come.

The lady shook her head. “No, I'll merely be spending the holidays with my daughter's family. My grandchildren are just lovely!”

“I can imagine!” Sherlock laughed. John rolled his eyes. As if! “Every Christmas we spend with our daughter is just like heaven. Just yesterday we were decorating the Christmas tree!”

John thought he might choke at that. Their _WHAT_?! He felt the desire to push Sherlock to the ground and follow with his fists. What was wrong with the man?! But he didn't do any of that, he had to sue all his strength to suppress the longing and smile at the lady as she turned around. He would murder Sherlock for that.

“But our little girl fell sick afterwards. She was devastated when we told her we couldn't got to the Chrstmas market today,” Sherlock continued imitating the face of a worried and sorrowful father perfectly. It was only when the lady answered that John finally understood what Sherlock was aiming at.

“The same happened to my grandchildren, too! But I suspect they ate too many sweet, they complained about a sick stomach and being thirsty all evening,” the lady sighed shaking her head. They stopped in front of one of the houses, and she opened the door. They followed her inside to drop the bags of groceries on the kitchen counter. Sherlock's gaze wandered through the room and got stuck on the Christmas tree in the living room space just a few metres away, decorated in silver and blue.

“It's a nice tree. Where did you get it from?” Sherlock asked. His interest did sound real now.

“Oh, just around the corner here. There's a nice man who sells them all day long. Most of us got it from that nice man,” she explained. “Would you like to stay for a cup of tea?”

John who would have liked a cup of tea very much got cut off by Sherlock. “No, thank you. We have to pick up our daughter form the kindergarten soon.”

John didn't even try to say anything against it at this point. The lady beamed. “Oh, then I won't bother you any further. Thank you two so much for your help!”

  
  


“Hey, I don't care what excuse he used to get into the old woman's house or that you are done with explaining to people that you're not actually gay. You wanted to break into Mr. Campell's house?! Please tell me you didn't actually do it.”

“Well, that's what's coming next...”

Lestrade put his face in his hands. Dear God... No wonder his hair was getting grey at this rate. “Do I even want to know?”

John waited patiently until Lestrade looked up and gestured for him to continue.

“So, we continued walking through the neighbourhood...”

  
  


“So, will you finally tell me about your theories?” John asked at some point after they'd (purposely) bumped into a bunch of other people and Sherlock had talked off their ears to eventually ask them about their Christmas trees. And a surprising amount of people had told them about their kids getting sick afterwards as well.

Sherlock looked down the street and grinned. “Now, we will commit a little burglary. Are you ready, John?”

John really wasn't. But he couldn't deny the rush of adrenaline. He knew it was wrong and absolutely reckless but his fingers were tingling and he knew Sherlock knew it, too. There was no point of denying it.

As a car passed them by, Sherlock's smirk and steps grew wider to a point John had a little trouble following. He didn't ask how Sherlock knew which of the houses was Mr. Campell's but he assumed Sherlock had simply googled the man.

“That was the Campells' car. I saw it in Baker Street and I just saw them get in. That's how I know,” he answered the unspoken question and chuckled, probably at John's astonished features. “So much time and you're still surprised by me, John; it's adorable.”

He passed the little brass gate to the Campells' property as if he was at home. Sherlock ascended the few steps up to the door with a single step and fumbled in the pockets of his coat. John looked around but before the unwell feeling in his stomach could even make him worry about someone watching them break in, Sherlock had already unlocked the door and urged him in. “That was... quick. Brilliant,” John remarked.

The corner's of Sherlock's mouth twitched. “Better not to leave any clues behind, John. Take off your shoes.”

They continued their way to the living room. “And you didn't have to take of your shoes?” John remarked. If Sherlock left any stains on the white carpet he would laugh at him.

He sighed. “I obviously didn't walk through the dirt like you did,” Sherlock cared to explain with a vague gesture of his hand. He strode through the living room towards the tree and eyed it. “Why do people buy these? Where is the sense behind that?” he asked, rather himself than anyone else. “It's sentiment. Is it sentiment?”

“It's called tradition. But yes, sentiment, too,” John answered even though he wasn't sure if Sherlock was listening. “Didn't your family have a Christmas tree when you were a child?”

“Of course we had one,” he retorted and sniffed at the tree. “Mummy insisted we had one. She made Mycroft and me help her decorate it every year. He was always the one who was allowed to put the star on top.” He pulled a voice but John couldn't figure out if it was because of the memory or the tree's scent. In Sherlock's world, it could be either of it.

“Did you? Have a tree?” He straightened himself and looked at John, hands behind his back. He shifted his weight onto his toes once, twice.

“Yes. We would always decorate it together,” he said, his voice full of the emotion the memories were charged with. Fond memories of a time before all of them had grown up.

“Would you like one in Baker Street?”

“What?”

“A Christmas tree. Would you like to have one in Baker Street?” he repeated patiently.

John shrugged. He didn't really know what to say to it. It had been a tradition when he had been a child. But then he had grown up, Harry had started drinking, his parents had gotten divorced, Afghanistan... besides, he knew Sherlock didn't like any of the Christmas stuff. Why bother him?

“I wouldn't mind, you know. If it makes you happy,” he interrupted John's thoughts. His gaze was still on him, his eyes like a clam sea yet ready to drown anyone who wasn't careful eno...

  
  


“John, I really like your way of story telling. I would like it if I was a child. I do _NOT_ need to know what his eyes remind you off!” Lestrade was slowly but very surely losing it. “So could you _PLEASE_ go on with the actual story before I clear my mind and throw you two into jail for committing burglary?!”

“Oh please, Greg, he has done worse,” John merely replied, surprising himself with it. Who would have thought he would one day be so easy with talking about crimes?

Lestrade, in the meanwhile, was sure he would one day die because of them and the stupid stuff they kept getting themselves in.

“Anyway, after we were done talking...”

  
  


Sherlock bent towards the tree again, eyeing the silver and golden ornaments suspiciously. “Would you mind telling me about your theories now? Or even one?” John crossed his arms over his chest. He didn't even try to not sound annoyed.

Sherlock rose and took his phone from his pocket. “Four theories, most probably decreasing within the next few moments...” He typed on his phone and held it to his ear. He was committing a burglary and still had the nerve to make a phone call?! “Ah, hello Mr. Campell,” Sherlock said feigning a smile. “Oh no, everything is fine. Where did you get your Christmas tree from?”

John imagined how stumped the poor Mr. Campell must be on the other end of the phone.

“Why? Baker Street is still missing one... Thank you,” Sherlock replied after a moment of silence and slipped the phone back into the pocket of his coat without having said goodbye. “Three theories,” he corrected himself opening the patio door.

John uncrossed his arms. “Will you finally tell me?”

It made him turn around, one hand still on the door handle. Cold air was flooding the living room rather quickly. John moved his toes as if he was seeking warmth in the fluffy carpet when the cold air hit them.

“I need to prove some things,” Sherlock merely replied. John groaned quietly. Had he really expected a proper answer? He should know better by now. “Lock the patio door behind me, then leave through the front door. We'll be meeting up in Baker Street. Don't forget your shoes and try not to get caught, will you?” Sherlock didn't wait for an answer, he swept out of the door, his long black coat floating behind him like a cape. _Why does he have to act this... mysterious and cool?_ , John wondered sighing. He made his way through the room to close and lock the door. He saw Sherlock jumping over the fence into the neighbours' garden and hoped for the detective's sake that no one was home. Although he doubted a lot would happen if they called the police. Lestrade would probably just groan and wave it off as “He's not dangerous, just a bit crazy. If he has a question, answer it. Please. For your and my sake.” 

  
  


“You're damn right. Now, he's broken into more than one house?” Lestrade wasn't even angry at this point anymore. Just really really done and really, really in need for a coffee. Laced with some alcohol. Some strong alcohol.

“I didn't say that. I merely said he jumped over a fence,” John corrected him. The corners of his mouth twitched as he tried to hide his grin.

Lestrade groaned again. He better started thinking about his gravestone's inscription...

  
  


John had arrived at Baker Street long before Sherlock. For a moment he had stood around lost considering what to do before he had shrugged and made himself a cup of tea. It was freezing and they had been out all day. His feet were aching and he wanted nothing more than to relax. That was how Sherlock found him a good two hours later, sitting in his armchair reading today's newspapers, a cup of tea next to him.

He swept into the room, took the cup and left almost as quickly as he had entered. John didn't even look up. “That was mi – never mind.” He placed the newspapers on the armrest and turned with a sigh to look at where Sherlock had disappeared to. A victorious “Ha!” came, then he suddenly started rummaging in his bedroom, throwing clothes around. A yellow jacket his the wall of the hall, a pair of shoes followed. John frowned. “What exactly are you doing there?” He hoped Sherlock wouldn't send the teacup flying next. Mrs. Hudson would hear and get all fussy over it.

“I'm getting ready for battle, John!” he called, and John found himself back a while ago when he had said the exact same and they had stood opposite a completely naked woman and a bunch of Americans with their guns pointing towards them only moments later.

He straightened himself. “And why?” He really didn't want a repeat of the Irene Adler incident.

Sherlock emerged from his bedroom, barefoot and shirtless. He stared at John frowning. “Isn't it obvious?” he snapped annoyed.

“It might be if you'd had the grace to tell me about your theories.”

“Theory.”

“Theory?”

“I don't like repeating myself.”

John suppressed the urge to roll his eyes and groan. He felt like his contingent was used up for today. “Would you like to explain then? What happened to the other theories? You had five this morning!”

“That was this morning. It's been a long time.”

“Barely four hours.”

Sherlock didn't answer, instead moved his toes and shifted his weight back and forth. He looked to the ground frowning, and John decided he didn't even want to try to figure out what he might be thinking. He would fail anyway.

So, he leaned back in his chair and picked up the newspapers again. He got to read about half of the article until Sherlock suddenly ripped the newspapers from John's hands. He had already opened his mouth to complain but Sherlock slammed his hands onto the armchairs and bent so close that their noses almost touched. John flinched. “What the hell, Sherlock?!”

He repeatedly taped John's chest. “Take off your sweater.”

“ _WHAT_?!”

He threw his head back groaning. “Take it off, NOW. You do know I loathe repeating myself, don't you?”

John... he didn't actually know what expression his face was currently showing. He assumed it to be a mixture of shock, surprise, disbelief and a good lack of understanding. Oh, and probably relief about the fact that no one was currently witnessing _this_. Mrs. Hudson would be delighted.

“Sherlock, I have no intentions of doing so. Not in any sense.”

He scrunched up his nose. “What? Why? John, this is for the case! Maybe my explanation was a bit fragmentary-”

“It was actually non-existent. You didn't even tell me about any of your theories! I followed you through half of London like a dog!” he clarified and watched how Sherlock blinked a few times as if he didn't understand.

“What? I did explain it to you!”

“When?”

“Well, in the bedroom! Just before I started undressing. Weren't you listening?”

“You weren't saying anything. And do you have any idea how wrong that sounds?”

“What?” Some more blinking, and John did nothing to keep himself from laughing at Sherlock. For being a genius the man could be quite stupid.

John rolled his eyes.”Oh come on, do I really-”

  
  


“Dr. Watson! I REALLY couldn't care less about... what the hell is this even that is going on in your flat? Hold on, no.” Lestrade held up his hands defensively. “I don't even want to know. I don't want to know _anything_ of that _._ Just bloody _tell me WHY_ Sherlock JUMPED IN THE BLOODY THAMES! IN DECEMBER” He ran his hands through his hair frenetically. Wasn't he slowly getting to old for this?

“You didn't see the problem earlier,” John remarked. He slipped his hands into his pockets and waited patiently until Lestrade seemed to have calmed down a bit. He really didn't want the DI to go into cardiac arrest.

“Well, I see a problem now. Have you two ever thought about marriage guidance? I think you could need that.”

John shifted his weight from his heels to his toes and back as he looked at Sherlock who was now having a serious discussion with one of the paramedics. Well, several of them. But still, Sherlock was clearly having the upper hand in the argument even though John couldn't understand what was being said. “You are aware that I am not gay, right?”

Greg blinked. “Oh, come on, John,” he groaned but decided to let the topic slide. He could probably call Mycroft about this later... “Okay, so about the case... and please, do come to the point.”

“Ah, right. So, after we had solved the problem with the sweater...”

  
  


John Watson was sure this was the most ridiculous thing he had ever seen and John Watson had seen a lot of things. But never Sherlock Holmes in that attire.

“What do you think?” he asked. Well, what should he think?

“You look... dashing,” he smirked, causing Sherlock to roll his eyes.

“Oh come on, John, you can do better than that.”

Yeah, well, what was he supposed to say to the _oh so great only Consulting Detective in the world_ when he was standing there in a Christmas sweater with a clown nose and red... whatever the things on his head were. Antennas. Like an alien. Maybe he was a Christmas alien? Alien Rudolph? John grunted. God, this was too good to be true.

“A Christmas Alien?” he guessed laughing while he felt around his pockets for his phone. He needed to secure that for the afterworld. Greg would murder him, and he would be Sherlock's next case if he didn't.

Sherlock sighed. “John, you disappoint me. Really. We need to go, there's a potential murderer running around. Wait, what are you doing there?”

“Smile.” He didn't smile at all but John had his photo and snickered like a child who had just successfully pranked his friend. Sherlock felt the urge to roll his eyes but was fairly sure he had done so enough for today. “Alright, we can leave now.” John contemplated messaging the photo to Greg immediately but he assumed the Christmas surprise would be ruined then. So, he simply grabbed his jacket, slipped the phone into its pocket and followed Sherlock outside. Needless to say the cabbie looked at them quite funnily when they got in, and Sherlock ordered him to get to Big Ben. It was just as needless to mention as the fact that, of course, John had to pay for the stupid cab. Westminster Bridge was full of people doing Christmas shopping, getting from A to B, strolling around the city; too many people for John's taste. And most of them were looking quite funnily at Sherlock. If he had hoped to blend in, he was failing just wonderfully. “Now, will you finally tell me about your theories?”

“Theory. There's only one remaining... I just need to find the convict... blend into the crowd but keep an eye on me. I might need your help,” Sherlock answered, pushed his coat into John's hand and was gone with that.

John looked at where he had been standing just a second ago before he put the coat over his arm and sighed. This entire case was getting ridiculous. Why was he even surprised anymore?

Keeping an eye on Sherlock was, despite his height and ridiculous appearance, quite hard. When he was trailing, feeling like he could wrap up the case at any moment, he was like a snake; quiet, invisible, dangerous, adapting to its surroundings without any problem. Hidden in plain sight, to be discovered only when it was too late.

He was talking to several people, mostly vendors who lined the side walks of the Westminster Bridge and were dressed equally ridiculous to Sherlock. It might confuse most people but John was used to this. If there was any connection Sherlock could see it. He decided to get closer.

“Not our man. I'm missing something. What am I missing? WHO am I missing?” Sherlock muttered as he pushed past John. They'd gone down the half of the Westminster Bridge by now. Sherlock's eyes scanned the crowd. What was he searching for? John's gaze followed the detective's to try to see what Sherlock saw when his eyes suddenly lit up. They had settled on a man selling cheesy Christmas ornaments, loudly advertising them. He looked rather ridiculous in his Santa Claus costume up there on a few boxes so he would be an eye catcher. Not that he looked less stupid in his costume than Sherlock did in attire. But he had picked up a scent. And John would be stupid not to follow right behind him.

“Oi! Christmas ornaments, just tha best, right here, right now! Madame, how 'bout an angel? Look at this beautiful silver! Or a ball'rina for ya little daughter? I'm sure she'd love one! Or you, Sir, a silver star for ya shining star?”

“Oi, mate!” Sherlock called out with an accent that was so not him that John cringed at it. “What can ya recommend me?”

“Ah, Sir, just tha best as to everyone! How 'bout a nice reindeer to add to ya tree? Look at this beautiful imitation!” He held up a unbelievingly cheesy silver reindeer up to show it off not just to Sherlock but everyone, a big smile plastered on his face. John didn't find it hard to believe this man might be a murderer. He might not look like one but he knew better than to distrust Sherlock's deductions.

“May I see?” he asked the vendor who handed it to him just too kindly. But instead of taking the ornament, Sherlock seized his wrist. John took a step closer so he was directly next to Sherlock, just in case.

“Thank you,” he hissed smirking at the vendor who didn't seem to understand. “By the way, the name is Sherlock Holmes and you have a nice silver stain on your fingers.” Something like realisation dawned on the vendor's face but it didn't last long. It turned into utter shock when Sherlock abruptly stepped onto the boxes and gripped him by his shirt's collar before he flung themselves down the bridge right into the Thames.

“SHERLOCK!” John screamed dashing towards the bridge's rail just in time to see Sherlock and the vendor being swallowed by the water. By then, countless people were pushing themselves towards the railing to see what had happened, some alarmed, some with their phones out to film the fight Sherlock and the unknown man were involved in. Jesus, the man would be the reason for John's early death. He buried his fingers into the stone railing until he saw Sherlock emerging from beneath the water.

“Call Lestrade! I caught him someone who wanted to attempt murder!” Sherlock shouted before the man suddenly grabbed him and pushed his head beneath the water. John watched anxiously but Sherlock managed to get the upper hand and instead push the vendor beneath the water.

“What has he even done?! Sherlock, Jesus, I don't even have an idea what has happened because you never bloody tell me!”

“Mercury!” he managed before he was pushed beneath the surface once more. Not that that information was of much use to John. “And I'm not quite Jesus but I feel flattered!”

“The planet? What had a planet to do with it?! I thought you didn't know anything about the solar system!”

“No!” Sherlock got knocked backwards by a blow but was back again on the murderer's heels quickly. “Quicksilver! Was in the ornaments, the vapours were making the children sick!” He punched the vendor right into the face and used the time it bought him to struggle out of John's sweater. “He has the evidence all over his fingers and supposedly other places as well... oh, come on, you still have your feet to keep yourself above the water. Don't panic now, don't be boring!”

John pushed back through the crowd groaning and pulled out his phone to call Lestrade.

  
  


“He somehow managed to take off the sweater and use it to tie the man up... no idea how he did it though. By the man he had brought him to the shore, the paramedics and you have already arrived and well... that's the case,” John finished his story.

“Alright... so, you said something about photos?”

“Oh, right! They'll make amazing Christmas cards, trust me,” John grinned upon taking out his phone.

“I'm thinking just the same, Dr. Watson,” Greg laughed when he saw them. He was almost sure he would end up as Sherlock's next case when he saw this year's Christmas cards but he decided it would be 100% worth it. 


End file.
